


Give Us Our Rights

by masterroadtripper



Series: Best We Can [4]
Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Drunken Confessions, Drunken Shenanigans, Drunkenness, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Trans Male Character, Trans Spot Conlon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:21:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21786667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/masterroadtripper/pseuds/masterroadtripper
Summary: Jack goes out and gets drunk with Katherine, Race and Elmer are sent out to go bring them home.  At the lodging house, Spot comes over from Brooklyn to meet with Jack, ends up talking with Charlie instead.
Relationships: Crutchie/Jack Kelly, Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins
Series: Best We Can [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1555765
Comments: 4
Kudos: 44





	Give Us Our Rights

Jack knew he was drunk. Usually, around this point in the night, Charlie would drag him home and yell at him for wasting their precious paper money on alcohol but the younger boy had twisted his ankle earlier in the day and was staying back at the lodging house. He hated to admit it, but he was drinking on Katherine’s dime tonight and the journalist was almost as drunk as he was. None of the other boys had come to the bar with them, Jack just wanted a calm night to not remember anything, and every minute closer to midnight, he was getting closer to achieving his goal.

Just after the grandfather clock chimed ten, the door to the bar opened, allowing Race and Elmer to walk in. Jack bet that Charlie had sent them to come retrieve him and walk Katherine home. He’d bet that Charlie also bribed them both with cigars upon their return. He knew his guys too well.

“C’mon Jack,” Race said as he and Elmer approached the table, “You too Katherine. Time ta ‘ead ‘ome.”

“Don’t wanna,” Jack said, crossing his arms and laying his head down on top of them.

“Jack youse drunk, if ya don’t get home ‘n rest up, youse not gonna ‘ave a good day tomorra,” Elmer added, taking the glass that was in front of Jack and downing the rest of the alcohol in one gulp.

“C’mon Elmer,” Jack wined, “why youse drink that?”

“Cause you’ve ‘ad enough,” Race said, “and Elmer’s right. Youse gotta rest up to ‘elp Crutchie tomorra’.” Jack scowled at Race. He hated how the other guys just saw Charlie as a gimp. He wasn’t. He was so much more than his bad leg and the horrible nickname they used. But they weren't doing it to be mean. They just didn’t know that Charlie didn’t like the nickname and the other boy hadn’t told them ‘no’ yet.

“I’s gots to bring youse back and Elmer gots to get Katherine back to ‘er pops,” Race added, pulling on Jack’s limp arm and getting him off his bar chair. At that point, Jack had given up. He just wanted to back on the rooftop, arms wrapped around Charlie’s torso.

C’mon, lets get goin’,” Elmer said, not touching Katherine but motioning that she’d have to get up too. While Katherine was significantly less drunk than Jack, she was a little tipsy and would definitely benefit from Elmer walking her home.

Out on the street, Jack bid Katherine farewell and the two groups went their separate ways. About a block into their walk back to the lodgings, after Jack had almost tripped himself or Race multiple times, the younger newsie finally started a conversation.

“Youse like Katherine?” Race asked, his face illuminated by the street light they passed under.

“Mmm,” Jack said, stumbling on uneven cobblestones, “nice gal.” Race was silent for a little and Jack briefly wondered if he’d said something wrong. But then he realized they’d barely spoken during their walk and thus, couldn’t have possibly had the opportunity to make a fool out of himself yet.

“Youse ‘ear ‘bout the coaller gent that got locked up?” Race asked.

“Was in the paper yesterday, yeah?” Jack asked.

He rarely actually read the papers that he was attempting to sell. Didn’t much care for reading - even though he could do it if he wanted. Not all the guys at the lodge could do that, so sometimes he’d help them out.

“Yeah. Gent got locked up for crimes ‘gainst nature,” Race said, his voice warbling a little. Jack swallowed. Even in his drunken haze, Jack could feel the worry tangling in his gut. Was Race implying that he knew about him and Charlie?

“Do youse fink that theys did the right fing?” Jack asked, trying to keep his words from slurring too much. But he needed to understand what Race’s opinion on this was.

“Kinda sucks that theys gots ta lock peoples up for jus...existin’,” Race muttered so quietly that Jack wasn’t sure if he had even heard right. Maybe...maybe Race played for his and Charlie’s team.

“Yeah,” Jack said, unsure of how to continue.

“You know, the boys whisper ‘bout youse,” Race said, “you’n Crutchie.”

Jack thought that his heart could have stopped. They knew? They guessed?

“They...do?” Jack said past the lump forming in his throat. He wanted to cry.

“I fink theys always says stuffs ‘bout youse,” Race said, still supporting Jack under one arm so he didn’t fall over due to his own drunkenness, “but afta Crutchie got locked up, I fink we’s all saw it.”

“What do they say?” Jack said, knocking Race’s arms away from him and dragging him in close by his collar. Race was likely on his tiptoes, due to their height difference, and suddenly they were eye to eye.

“Nuffin much,” Race said cautiously and that was when Jack released him, let him go, when he realized that he wasn’t being very nice to the younger newsie who had come to fetch him in the dark.

Jack stumbled towards the nearest curb and collapsed down on it, the cold concrete connecting harshly with his tailbone, causing him to wince in pain. Race sat down next to him.

“I needs anoffer drink,” Jack muttered, rubbing his hands over his face.

“No, youse don, youse needs to get back to the lodge and to sleep,” Race said, but made no move to get up and make it happen.

“What do youse fink?” Jack said, looking over at Race. The boy's curled hair flopped down in front of his eyes, no longer pulled away from his face by the force of his cap. He almost looked like Charlie, young and vulnerable in his light. But Charlie and Race were built differently. Race was thin and lean while Charlie was more stalky. Still, they were all thinner than they should be. Jack was glad that he was able to put his art paycheck towards making sure that everyone got room and board if they didn’t make enough on their own.

“Whatchu mean?” Race asked, wrapping his arms around his knees.

“What do youse fink about me and Crutchie?” Jack asked, his voice firm.

“I fink is fine,” Race said quietly. Jack said nothing else, just sitting in the relative quiet of the night.

Then, he pulled himself off the ground, only stumbling a little and heading towards the lodging house. He heard the scuffing of Race’s shoes as he jogged to catch Jack.

“I aint neva said nuffin, the guys wouldn’t neither,” Race said. Jack supposed that was supposed to be comforting, but it really wasn’t. But this was probably as close to acceptance as he and Charlie would ever get from the other guys, so he wasn’t going to push his luck.

“So, is true then,” Race said. Jack sniffled a little into the cold and air gave a curt nod in reply. Yeah, Race was right. He always was. It didn’t mean that Jack felt like shouting it from the rooftops.

“Your turn,” Jack said, “you gotsa a pretty burd you gots youse eye on?”

“Aint no burd,” Race muttered and Jack held his breath, “is why I go to the tracks. Sells togetha dere.”

“I’m glad Race,” Jack said, turning to the smaller boy, “we’s gotsta stick togeffer, youse gots that?”

"Long as youse remember tomorra mornin,sure,” Race replied with a chuckle.

“I aint gonna forgets,” Jack replied, putting more weight onto Race to prevent from falling over, “I remembers everyfing.”

“Sure Jack,” Race replied with a chuckle.

* * *

Spot wanted - no needed - to talk to Jack. After The World ran the piece about the coal worker that had gotten locked up for crimes against nature, his gut had been rolling. Maybe he’d be able to convince the leader of Manhattan and the artist for The World to make a political piece about the arrest. Maybe get a few folks to open their eyes about how horribly wrong their society was about people like them.

He knew that Jack and Crutchie were a thing. It was really hard to miss. And even though the strike was nearing six months ago, he and Jack kept in touch and Crutchie always tagged along. Against his best judgement, Spot would also sneak into the lodging house to see Race on occasion. Race assured him, night after night, that no one knew and that he hadn’t even heard the slightest whisper indicating that anyone knew what they were up to. Good. Less questions that way.

Walking into the lodging - assuring the kind lady manning the front entrance that he’d leave before lights out - Spot began his search for Jack. He knew that Jack was usually either up on the roof or on top of his bunk at the back of the second floor - the newsies floor. Since it was the middle of the winter, there was no way that Jack would be up on the roof, so he took the stairs two at a time to the second floor.

As he opened the squeaky wooden door, a couple of eyes turned his way. He recognized Specs, the tall, scraggly kid with the mop of blond hair and glasses as thick as bottle caps, sitting on the floor, playing cards with another boy that he couldn’t name.

“Hiya Spot,” Specs said, looking up from his hand of cards, “lookin for Jack?”

“Yeah, he ‘round?” Spot asked, shifting from foot to foot.

“Nah, went out couple of hours ago wif Kath, Race ‘n Elmer just left to bring ‘em ‘ome,” Specs said, looking down at his cards again.

“Davey ‘n Crutchie is ‘ere,” the little boy playing cards with Specs said, looking up at Spot. It always startled him to see such young newsies working in Manhattan. He realized that most people in Brooklyn were slightly better off and newsies were usually all older than twelve, but this kid couldn’t have been any more than seven. Aside from the unkept, shaggy brown hair hanging just past his chin and the eye patch, the kid looked like a miniature version of Jack.

“Fanks kid,” Spot said, making his way further into the lodging house, going in search for either of Jack’s right-hand men. Making his way past Race’s bunk - one Spot knew rather well - Spot went further in, past the rickety wood frames until he saw Jack and Crutchies.

Aside from its location, nothing else indicated that the leader of the Manhattan newsies slept there every night. Wedged under the window, from the top bunk, there was a clear, unobstructed view of the waterfront and what would be a subsequently beautiful sunrise every morning. No wonder Jack, the artist in residence, chose this bunk.

Resting on the bottom bunk was Crutchie, the younger newsie had the foot of his good leg propped up on what looked like a bunched up jacket. Jack’s jacket, if Spot had to take a guess. He looked in pain. Even though he was resting and not moving, his eyes were scrunched closed and he was massaging his bad leg. From here, Spot could see the polio-ruined muscles spasming in protest. Spot couldn’t imagine the pain that Crutchie lived with every day.

“Hiya Crutchie,” Spot said quietly, trying not to spook the blond kid any more than needed. He still startled, pulled his hands in towards himself and shifted violently on his bunk. The movement jostled both legs and Spot watched him wince.

“Oh, hi Spot,” Crutchie replied before settling himself again, “if youse lookin for Jack, he aint ‘ere.”

“I know,” Spot replied, “Specs said Race ‘n Elmer gonna go get ‘im. Decided to wait.”

“M’kay,” Crutchie grunted, “why youse gonna wait ‘ere? Go play cards or somefing. I aint tha’ interesting.”

“Figured Jack’s right ‘and man needed some company,” Spot said, “no ones playin’ no cards wif youse.”

“They aint gonna play wif a stupid crip who can’t even walk,” Crutchie muttered and Spot almost felt his heart break in two. How did he think so little of himself to say stuff like that? He knew that Jack wouldn’t let Crutchie get away with talking down to himself like that. Maybe Crutchie didn’t say it in front of Jack.

“Aye, don’t say that,” Spot said, trying to make his voice sound comforting, just the same way that Race would do for him when he would have issues about his own body.

“Is true,” Crutchie grumbled back, crossing his arms over his chest and pouting.

“Youse eva tried ginga’?” Spot asked, suddenly reminding a trick from when he got really bad cramps. He realized that their cramps were obviously from very different sources, but it really did work wonders for Spot.

“I dunno what tha’ is,” Crutchie said, the pout lessening slightly.

“Is a plant, I fink. You puts it in hot wata ‘n drink it,” Spot tried to explain, “‘elps wif cramps.”

“This aint cramps,” Crutchie explained, “this,” he added, motioning to his bad leg, “is polio. Does it all the time. Anytime the weatha changes. And this,” he continued, pointing to the foot resting on the jacket, “is cause of this,” he finished, pointing back to his bad leg, “is a circle.”

“Worths a try?” Spot asked, “Cause that aint look fun.” The muscle in his bad leg was spasming again, the knee contracting and making it look like it had a mind of its own.

“Gonna be expensive,” Crutchie added finally.

There.

That was the root of the whole problem. Same as Race, it would take a long time before he would accept help in the form of money or an object. He remembered the first few times he tried to give Race a cigar that he had bought for him. The good kind, not the usual rubbish he smoked. And the blond boy had straight-up refused to accept it. Spot bet that Jack and Crutchie were likely having the same issues, with Jack making significantly more money now. Maybe he’d tell Jack what to get and then see what would happen. Because Crutchie was seriously suffering.

That was about when he heard the door to the second floor bang open so hard that Spot was surprised it didn’t fall off its hinges. The bang was followed by a chorus of shouts telling Jack to control his drunk ass before he tore the entire bunkhouse down single-handedly.

If Jack was back, that meant so was Race. Turning quickly towards the door, he tried to get an eye full of his blond newsie. Surely enough, the two of them were making their way closer and closer, likely to dispose of Jack on his bunk and let him sleep his alcohol off. The two were laughing, Race seemingly taking most of Jack’s weight as the bigger boy managed to trip on nothing. At least Jack had a good night, one he’d likely not remember the next day, but good nonetheless.

“Hiya Spot,” Jack yelled as he got in range, “youse ‘ere and Race is ‘ere and Crtuchie is where I lefts ‘im! Everyfings still ‘ere!”

“Yeah,” Spot said quickly, looking at Race’s face. He was obviously trying not to start laughing at the absolute drunk he had in his immediate care.

“Well Crutchie, wes found Kath ‘n Jack, do we gets ours cigars now?” Race asked.

“Get ‘im up on ‘is bunk and youse’ll gets double,” Crutchie said with a short laugh.

“C’mon, wha’s wes waitin for?” Spot said, putting Jack’s other arm around his shoulder and saying, “up you go big guy.”

* * *

Jack woke up the next morning to a massive headache. Damn, how much alcohol did he actually end up having? Too much evidently.

Thankfully, there was no sunlight shining in the window and the lodging house had maintained a decent amount of heat throughout the night. Hopefully, there would be no major issues to deal with before he got a mug of lukewarm coffee from the nuns.

Sitting up, avoiding the pipe which had many head-shaped dents in it, Jack crawled towards the ladder of the bed and climbed down. Very few newsies were up yet and Charlie was still sound asleep. He could see Davey’s bed was empty, but Les’s was still occupied, meaning Davey wasn’t gone for the day yet. Davey probably had a few choice words for him this morning about his behaviour last night.

Not that he could really remember much of it. But he bet he acted like a moron regardless. Always did when he was drunk.

Though, right now, he would love to brush his teeth. Without no one to say no or take up the bathroom space, Jack headed in that direction and was surprised to see that the light was already on.

Standing at one of the sinks, Race already had a lit cigar between his lips and was puffing away. Before the sunrise too.

“Um, hi,” Jack said, his voice feeling like gravel in his throat.

“Well hi there ya big ol drunk,” Race said, “‘ow youse feelin?”

“Like I gots drunk last night,” Jack replied, turning on a faucet and cupping his hands under the running water for a drink. Once he felt slightly more human, he looked over at Race, who was staring right back at him and said, “I do rememba. Youse said I would forgets.”

“And youse said youse neva forgets nuffin,” Race replied with a laugh.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Spot is trans and you can't change my mind  
> 2) In my head, I see the characters looking like their OBC actors except for Race, he looks like Ben Tyler Cook to me  
> 3) Ginger helps with period cramps, I don't think it'd help with leg muscle cramps, but Spots trying to do his best to help anyways.  
> 4) I have never gotten drunk, so all the drunken shenanigans are just based on what I've seen on tv/in movies  
> 5) I will be introducing the seven-year-old newsie with an eye patch later - they're an original character


End file.
